Charles Edward "Chuck" Mader

With a heart heavier than his favorite Milwaukee toolbox, I share that on November 30, 2024, while enjoying a few days at our rural haven, surrounded by the trees, birds, and critters he pretended not to befriend, my beloved husband, Chuck Mader, traded this noisy world for an eternal, peaceful sanctuary.

Chuck—a man of unshakable strength, quiet brilliance, and an unparalleled knack for making miracles with his hands—was born on September 19, 1959, in Sheboygan, Wisconsin (where Widmer cheese, kraut, and hard work are birthrights). Chuck grew up one of six siblings in a family that taught him to roll up his sleeves and never back down from a challenge.

Whether it was building a bridge, grilling a perfect medium rare KC strip or explaining my math errors with the patience of a saint, Chuck never met a problem he couldn’t solve. He preached about how to “outsmart the object” with a precision that makes the pros on “This Old House” look like a amateurs. He never met a tool he didn’t think he needed, and often reminded me that using the right tool wasn’t just nice—it was non-negotiable (a message he began to preach after seeing me once use a shovel as a broom).

Chuck was a civil/structural engineer and construction manager. He spent his career building railroads, bridges, and buildings, proving that the biggest challenges just required a clear mind and a no-nonsense attitude. He led projects that won national awards, such as the largest triple-track rail flyover in the U.S. Whether he was managing a half-billion-dollar engineering project or tinkering with “Cheddar,” his cherished yellow 1977 Toyota Land Cruiser from Wisconsin, Chuck approached every task with the same unshakable focus (along with a little grease under his nails, mud on his shoes and, usually, paint or Gorilla Glue clinging to what was his nicest shirt).

Chuck was happiest in the simplest of moments: “forest bathing” among the trees, sipping a cold Miller High Life (the champagne of beers, naturally), or firing up his beloved Weber grill, as the sun dipped below the horizon. He didn’t need big gestures; his joy was found in the quiet, steady rhythm of life. 

At home, Chuck was a master craftsman and our resident mad scientist in his “laborratory,” where he turned wood into timeless creations. He also transformed decrepit houses into homes. He didn’t just repair them—he fortified, designed and installed structural reinforcements that will withstand a nuclear winter.

Chuck’s workbench was where sawdust mixed with genius, and the result was always something built to last—just like Chuck himself. Building wasn’t just a skill for him; it was his love language. Once, after a squabble, I asked him if he still loved me. Without missing a beat he replied, “well, I built that custom bathroom cabinet for you, didn’t I?” These gifts spoke my love language, too. Thank you, Chuck, for every masterpiece you built—with your hands and love.

Chuck is survived by me, his devoted wife and honorary tool-fetcher, Allison Bergman, and my daughter, Portia Strautman (21), who he loved deeply and for whom he built a scaled model of the Addams Family mansion (conditioned upon her first calculating its geometric dimensions). He is also survived by his incredibly strong mother and co-Green Bay Packers fan, Letitia Mader (95); and his siblings, Bridget (68), Tim (67), the vivacious Alison (66), and younger brothers, William (62), and Michael (60).

Chuck was always happy to greet me. Quietly, he would wrap me with a bear hug strong enough to fix a bad day, and ask me, “how is my beautiful wife?” I’ll forever remember Chuck for delivering those tender gifts while lounging in his recliner, shoes kicked off, with a football game, cop show, or the local Kansas City news playing faintly in the background.

To honor Chuck’s love for simplicity and aversion to fuss, in lieu of a service, I ask that you hold Chuck in your thoughts and send up a prayer— and if you’re so inclined, raise a cold glass of High Life in his name.

Chuck didn’t say much, but his life spoke volumes. He was my constant, my love, and proof that the quietest hearts often beat the strongest—until they can’t. May your soul be at peace, my strong, gentle Chuck. Be proud that you’ve built a legacy with your hands and in my heart that will never waver.